


A Necklace of Rope

by Padraigen (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Betrayal, Character Death, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, M/M, Sane Tom Riddle, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-11-23 12:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18151694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Padraigen
Summary: “I think it was only a matter of time, really, until my name was drawn from that cup.”-Harry’s name being called on Reaping Day of the 74th annual Hunger Games is hardly a shock. Everything being not as it seems, even less so.In a game of chance where the outcome is almost certainly already decided, Harry is the wild card no one’s expecting — least of all Tom Riddle, volunteer tribute of District 3 with a great deal of ambition and everything to lose.**discontinued indefinitely**





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I've never attempted anything as complicated as Tomarry before, and certainly not in such a setting, so please bear with me. If you have any helpful critiques or wouldn't mind beta'ing, let me know!
> 
> As a side note, this story is set in a sort of Panem-esque setting I (oh-so cleverly) dubbed “The Nation.” It‘s a bit of an alternate universe version of North America/Britain put together. Don’t think too hard on it and you’ll be fine.
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy!
> 
> (For obvious reasons I won't reveal any MCDs, but if you are hesitant about reading the story for possible triggers email me via padraigendragon@gmail.com.)

“... Harry Potter!”

Harry stood rigid at the sound of his name. He was sure a gust of wind could have knocked him right over in that moment as his heart thundered a rapid beat in his ears. Briefly, he wondered if this was what shock felt like.

But no.

He couldn’t say he was all that shocked.

The burn of hundreds of pairs of eyes on him made his skin crawl and the knowledge that hundreds more were watching him, judging him, from behind a screen was enough to make him want to make a scene. He didn’t dare, though, not when his eyes swept up and met those of Ginny Weasley.

Ginny was the picture of absolute calm, her features an unreadable mask. It was her eyes, however, alive with a fire Harry was exceedingly familiar with that kept his mouth shut and allowed him to be prodded none-so-gently to the podium. His eyes didn’t leave her face as his feet found the few steps up onto the podium of their own accord. It was a minor miracle that he didn’t trip, for which he was rather glad. He didn’t figure that would make the impression he would want to make.

Shame and anger twisted his stomach at the thought. It had been mere moments since his name had been selected from the cup, and already he was playing into the game the Ministry had intended for him with these reapings, even days away from the arena.

He took his place next to Rita Skeeter opposite Ginny and forced his eyes to roam over the crowd. There was the perfunctory applause Harry was all-too familiar with, but no cheering. In fact, it was almost eerily quiet once the clapping stopped. Faces young and old wore grim expressions. Any relief they might have been feeling was overpowered by the reality of two young people being sent to their almost certain demise.

After all, a District 9 tribute hadn’t won the Games in some twenty years, and Harry didn’t particularly feel like the odds were going in his favour.

When Harry’s eyes caught sight of a bundle of red-heads sequestered on the outskirts of the crowd, a pang of something sharp struck him in the region of his heart. Desolation was writ clear as day on their faces as they looked at Ginny. He searched for his friend, Ron, and found that he was staring not at Ginny, but right back at him. His face was set in stony rage, and if he had not been too old by only a couple of months, Harry was convinced that right now he would be volunteering to take his place in a devoted, if ultimately idiotic, attempt to protect his sister.

When he zoned back into reality, Skeeter was rattling off the same spiel she gave every year about what an honour it was to be chosen for this momentous occasion. Harry thought, rather unkindly, that she could take her ‘honour’ and shove it up her arse.

She then turned to each of them in turn and asked — much too excitedly than was completely normal — how they felt about this opportunity. Harry’s scathing response died on his tongue at the minuscule shake of Ginny’s head, and he let her answer with some rubbish about what a privilege it was to be there. He could not make himself respond with anything other than a small nod of his head in ostensible agreement.

Skeeter stared at him from behind a pair of ridiculous purple glasses that certainly held more stylish purposes than practical, waiting very obviously for him to contribute something. He opened his mouth, barely taking in the warning look Ginny shot at him, and said — having no idea it was what he was going to say — “I think it was only a matter of time, really, until my name was drawn from that cup.”

—

The only one who visited Harry before they dragged him off to the Ministry was Ronald Weasley. This was an even more unsurprising development than being chosen as a tribute had been.

Harry didn’t even consider the Dursleys showing up. He was certain that for years they’d been putting more slips of his name in the cup in exchange for extra rations. They were probably the only ones actually celebrating the occasion. Whether he won or not, they would finally be rid of him.

And now that his name had been called, he had successfully clinched the possibility of their precious ‘Duddykins’ ever becoming tribute, for this was the last year either of them were eligible.

Harry scrutinized Ron’s clenched jaw and red-rimmed eyes and assumed he’d just been to visit Ginny.

“Hi, Ron. Thanks for coming to see me,” Harry said after it became clear Ron was only going to stare at him, expression inscrutable.

Harry hadn’t been sure he would come, and he wouldn’t have blamed, either, for wanting to stay with his sister. Even if Ron  _was_ about to threaten him on Ginny’s behalf, Harry was absurdly grateful anyone bothered to see him at all before he was swept away and likely wouldn’t see any of them ever again.

He cursed himself for the thought the second after it occurred to him. Harry had never been one for giving up, and he’d already survived 17 years with the Dursleys hadn’t he? He couldn’t very well imagine himself capable of murder, but then he couldn’t really imagine not at least trying to defend himself, either.

“Of course I came, Harry. You’re my best mate.” Ron wasn’t looking at him now. His shoulders were curled inwards, like an immense weight had been placed upon his shoulders, and a sudden wave of sympathy for his friend washed over Harry.

Before he could swallow the words, he was saying, “I’m sorry… you know, about Ginny.” He winced and shut his mouth before he could mention Fred.

Ron shuddered, and then visibly pulled himself together, his broad shoulders straightening. “Don’t be ridiculous, Harry. That wasn’t your fault, there’s no way you could have stopped it from happening. None of us could have. It’s those stupid  _wankers_ at the — ” Ron wisely cut himself off, glancing about the room in a way that told Harry he was looking for cameras. And even if there was any, Harry thought, they wouldn’t be able to see them. Harry was convinced the Ministry had ways of spying on the people that only they knew about.

“Look, Harry,” Ron continued after a moment. Harry saw the struggle on his face and had an idea of where this conversation was going. “I’m not… I’m not gonna ask you to give your life for her, or anything, because that isn’t fair, but… I just— could you— ”

“It’s alright, Ron. I understand.” Harry smiled weakly in an attempt to stop Ron from looking so miserable. “Of course I’ll try my best to look after her. I’m offended you even thought you had to ask.”

A heavy weight was suddenly upon him as Ron’s long arms wrapped him up and pulled him into a hug that hindered Harry’s ability to draw breath. He didn’t even pretend to put up a struggle, falling into the embrace like it was the only thing keeping him standing.

“I’m gonna miss you, mate.”

“Christ, I’m not dead, yet,” Harry said, voice muffled by the press of fabric. His head was buried in Ron’s shoulder, and he desperately wished in that instance that Ron would just never let go. That time would cease, and he could spend the rest of forever right here.

But unfortunately Harry could not stop time, and Ron could not stay, and there was a train waiting to take him to the Ministry, a ticket to hell with his name on it.

And as the train sped by fields of wheat, a sight so familiar after years of staring at them from atop a hill, moving at speeds greater than Harry could possibly comprehend, Harry couldn’t say with any degree of certainty whether the life waiting for him was really any worse than the one he was leaving behind.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished up chapter two much more quickly than I anticipated and I couldn't wait to post, so I hope you enjoy! Still looking for a beta if anyone's interested :)

By the time Harry had pulled himself out of the carriage — which was much bigger than the room he’d had at the Dursleys’, if that could even be called a room — he would temporarily reside in until they reached the Ministry, Ginny was already sat at a table filled with enough food to feed a family in District 9 for a couple of weeks at the least. Across from her sat Skeeter, who was mumbling on about something or other, Harry couldn’t hear, whilst admiring her inch-long crimson nails. Ginny’s hand was clenched around a fork, her knuckles white from how tightly she was holding it, and from the look on her face Harry was certain Skeeter would soon find a pot of roast in the face if Harry didn’t intervene.

“Hello,” he decided on, for lack of anything better, and pulled out a chair beside Ginny. Ginny’s grip on her fork relaxed a bit.

“Hello, dear.” Skeeter’s smile was anything but sincere when she looked up from her perusal of her terrifying nails. “Have you eaten yet?”

Harry refrained from pointing out that he’d only just got there and hadn’t the chance to so much as add a dollop of mashed potatoes to his plate and said only, “Er, I was just about to.”

Harry wasn’t particularly hungry, but even he knew how stupid it would be to turn down any food he was provided before the Games. He didn’t have a great deal of hope for himself, granted, but he wasn’t going to be the one kid too frail to take on even the weakest of tributes because he was too stubborn to take that which was offered.

Ginny didn’t say anything but took an aggressive bite out of a chicken leg that made her displeasure explicitly clear.

At least she was eating.

Harry helped himself to some of the mashed potatoes, chicken, and bread, and even some of the treacle tart which Petunia had baked on rare occasions but never allowed him to eat. It was as delicious as it had always looked.

“Ms Skeeter?” Harry asked after his plate was clean and his dinner had been washed down by two glasses of water.

“You can call me Rita, dear.” Skeeter breathed on the lens of her glasses, then brought up the end of her scarf to wipe them off, not once deigning to look at him.

“Er, okay,” Harry said, though he had no intention of making a habit of talking to her. “Do you know where our mentor is, by chance?”

That got Skeeter’s attention. She purposely placed her glasses back on the tip of her nose and regarded the both of them before huffing a laugh. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him, dear. He’ll speak with you tonight before you go to bed.”

“He won’t be speaking to both of us, then?” Ginny asked, sounding entirely unsurprised even though this was news to Harry.

“Mr Black prefers to train his tributes one-on-one.” Skeeter’s eyes sparkled like she was granting them an especially juicy bit of gossip. Harry supposed that idle “gossip” might have been the only way people like her found entertainment in the rather droll life she must live in the Capitol, parading around as if their will was truly their own, and found he pitied her more than he could ever hate her.

She reminded him of the Dursleys, in a way. They only hated the oddities of the people in the Capitol insofar as they differed from their own ways of life. Harry knew if, had they half the chance, they would happily don fluorescent wigs and eccentric garb if it meant they could abandon the hardships of a life everyone in outlying Districts must suffer.

Harry himself had never understood why anyone would  _want_ to live there. The poorer Districts of the Nation weren’t dazzling by any means of the imagination as they related to the Capitol, but they weren’t nearly as artificial either. Any citizen he’d ever seen, on television or otherwise, who lived there was as false as the next. Grindelwald, the Minister, was falsest of them all.

The only appeal of winning the Hunger Games — in Harry’s opinion, anyway — was the slightly better life a Victor could provide for his or her family. Unless you were Sirius Black and decided to permanently reside in the Capitol for whatever reason, that is.

Harry refrained from asking Skeeter why Black only trained his tributes one-on-one, not expecting an answer of any value anyway and went back to eating. He told himself he wouldn’t stop until his stomach felt like it would burst, and he hoped he didn’t make himself sick.

After, Harry tried to talk to Ginny, but she made it clear she had nothing to say to him and hid herself in her own room before he could really say anything. It was probably for the best, Harry thought. He didn’t know what he could possibly say to her. Good luck? Hope you don’t die? I promise I won’t kill you?

For as long as he had known her, Ginny had been a ball of vibrancy and willfulness. She would not lay down and give up, and she would not ask to be saved. Her doggedness reminded him strongly of himself, as he grew older and stopped letting the Dursleys walk all over him.

_You can strike out with your words of hate and see me as a slave through the eyes of a master. You can lock me up like a dirty little secret and pull me out like a tool to be used. You can beat me and bruise me, but you will never break me._

Ginny always spoke of the Ministry with a loathing that scared him. She spoke of injustice and cowardice and people so sick in the head they thought innocent children being slaughtered by the hands of other children an apt form of entertainment.  _Pointless_ , she’d scream until she lost her voice.  _So pointless!_

Anger simmered hot and fierce in the pit of his belly as it occurred to him that this  _game_ was not so different from living with the Dursleys. He was still a tool, and his purpose was still to be used by those who controlled him. Except now the scale was much larger, and he wasn’t being asked to do chores, no matter how horrendous. He was being asked to kill.

Ginny’s hostility was much more understandable when he wasn’t simply a bystander, not like how he used to be. He had been thrown into the middle of this corruption just like Ginny had years ago when her brother had been reaped and forced to pay the ultimate price —  _for no reason._

At least no reason Harry could logically discern.

He could not blame Ginny for her antagonism. He wanted her to know that he wouldn’t stand in her way. He would help where he could.

Harry lay in bed that night almost having completely forgotten about Sirius Black meeting with him, so it came as a bit of a shock to hear a knock at his door in the middle of the night. He wished he could say it had woken him up, but he could barely close his eyes for more than a few seconds before opening them again, his mind racing with endless possibilities. In his head, he died a hundred different ways, and Ginny a hundred more. If he could not even fall asleep in the relative safety of a moving train, then how would he possibly find rest in the arena? These thoughts plagued him until he was forced to get up and open the door.

Black looked much as he did the few times Harry had seen him on television. Up close though, his eyes were a deep brown, not black. His long hair was an artful tangled mess and his breath smelled heavily of alcohol. Harry winced at the stench.

“Harry Potter as I live and breathe.” Black pushed by him into the room and collapsed gracelessly into an armchair beside the bed. The lamp on the nightstand flickered on without a hint of Black even reaching for it. Harry thought maybe was rather tired after all. “C’mere, Harry. Sit. We have much to talk about.”

Harry did as told, closing his door behind him. He sat on the side of the bed in front of Black and studied him while he studied Harry. A scar as long as his finger marred Black's skin, running down from his forehead across his eye and over his sharp cheekbone. Outlined in gold from the glow of the lamplight, it gave him a rugged handsomeness that was simultaneously as menacing as it was stunning. Harry almost wanted to ask if he could still see out of his right eye, but the question sounded stupid and silly even inside his head.

Black must have noticed his staring because he said, “That’s what happens when you trust people.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”

Black sighed and bowed his head so that his brown hair fell over his face like a curtain. Quietly, he said, “These games… they change people. Even the most innocuous of us can turn into cold-blooded killers when we’re desperate enough.”

“I won’t.” Harry’s conviction couldn’t hold a candle to the doubt he was feeling inside. He wasn’t stupid. He’d seen what the Hunger Games did to people, year after year, and Black was right. People did change. This environment, this  _situation_ , was more than enough cause for it. That didn’t mean he wouldn't try not to let it, though — not for the worse.

Black looked up with a smile on his face. It wasn’t mocking or unkind, but almost… sad. Harry sucked in a breath.

“Of course you won’t.”

Harry couldn’t discern the truth of that statement and didn’t try.

“Petra Pettigrew,” Black said, with enough significance it was like he had just revealed an important piece to a puzzle. Harry didn't know what the puzzle was, however,  so did not put much more thought into it than,

“What?”

“Petra was the girl tribute chosen to represent District 9 with me for the 52nd Hunger Games.” Black smiled, but this one was more bitter than the one he’d given Harry. “We trained together. We fought together. We allied with each other. That is, until someone better came along.”

Harry swallowed and felt his heart begin to race as Black looked out the carriage window unblinkingly.

“She gave me the scar,” Black said after a few long minutes of uncomfortable silence. He turned back to Harry, and said again, “People change. She wasn’t the girl I pulled pranks on the baker’s daughter with anymore. She was a survivor.

“I don’t blame her for turning on me. We all do things we say we’ll never do until we’re put under enough pressure, and we prove ourselves wrong. You must never forget that there can only be one victor, Harry.”

“But— ”

“No. You can’t trust anyone in the arena, not even Ginny, and they can’t trust you. Ginny already knows this. That’s the kind of thing that will get you killed.”

“You talked to Ginny?”

Black nodded. Questions were bubbling inside Harry, but only one really mattered right now. “Then why did you ally yourself with Petra? Are you saying you would’ve done the same? That you would’ve tried to kill her?”

“I’m saying that I did.”

A bucket of ice water might as well have dropped on Harry for how chilled he suddenly felt. “No,” he protested. “No, I would never kill Ginny. I would never even hurt her.”

“You might not have a choice— ”

“No! There’s always a choice.” Harry's breath came like he’d just run ten miles without breaking. “What is the point of all this? Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to win.”

Silence fell over them as Harry pondered those words. Of course mentors wanted one of their trainees to win, but… this sounded like more than that. Like Black had more invested in Harry than Harry could really understand.

“Merlin, you remind me of your mother,” Black said, apropos of nothing.

Harry was very curious about two parts of that statement —  _Who was Merlin?_ — but the one that won out was, “You knew my mum?”

Harry could imagine how he looked sitting there, barely restrained hope and yearning pushing him closer to where Black sat. He never knew his parents, not even their names. He only knew that Petunia was very much  _not_ his mother and Vernon was  _not_ his father. That they had found him on their doorstep when he was a babe and took him in, not out of the goodness of their hearts, but because it would make them look good in front of the neighbours. He could only assume they hoped to earn some sympathy and perhaps a few favours. When Harry was old enough, they put him to work like he was their (unpaid) servant to make up for the extra mouth they (occasionally) had to feed.

Black’s face hardened from the inexplicably fond look he was giving Harry so fast, Harry was left to wonder what he’d done wrong. “They didn’t tell you, did they?”

“Who didn’t tell me what?”

“Those damnable muggles!”

“What’s a— ”

“Never mind that.” Black waved a hand that shut Harry right up, even though questions were almost bursting from the tip of his tongue. “Your mother was Lily Evans, Harry. Victor of the 53rd annual Hunger Games.”

It wasn’t what Harry was expecting. He wasn’t really sure what he  _was_  expecting, but that definitely wasn’t it. Everyone knew the story of how two victors came out of the same district twice in a row, an occurrence virtually unheard of outside career districts.

Sirius Black, of course, went on to make a life for himself in the Capitol, and it looked like Lily Evans would follow in his footsteps until a tragic car accident took her, her husband’s, and purportedly her only child’s life.

It never would have occurred to him that  _he_ was that child.

Black reached into the inside of his leather jacket and pulled something from a pocket. It turned out to be a golden locket with a red ruby embellishing the front carved into the shape of a heart. He handed it to Harry with more care than Harry would have expected from him — or from what little he knew of him.

“That was your mother’s,” Black said, leaning back in his chair once Harry had relieved the locket from him. “She wore it into the arena; thought it was a good luck charm or some rot like that. That’s what she said, anyway. I bring it with me most places I go, but… well, I thought you might need it more than I do, now.”

Harry studied the locket, fingers trembling where the chain wrapped around them. His thumb stroked the ruby and his palm burned from underneath where the pendant lay, pulsing with heat as if it were a living thing.

He thought it was probably the loveliest gift he had ever been, or would ever be given.

“Don’t wear it around your neck, obviously. You don’t need to give anyone a reason to strangle you. Your mum kept it wrapped around her wrist.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, barely above a whisper. He had to swallow the lump in his throat before the words would come out, and he hoped Black didn’t notice the rapid blinking of his eyes.

“Nothing to thank me for. Your mother would want you to have it.” Black looked fidgety and stood up rather suddenly. “I’m sorry… for not giving it to you before now. For not coming to visit. I was good friends with your parents, you know. I should’ve been there for you but I wasn’t able— ” Black cut himself off, looking frustrated with himself. “I’m gonna let you sleep now.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest — he had so many more questions he needed answers to; Black couldn’t just say all of that and expect Harry not to want more of an explanation — but Black cut him off before any words came out. “I’ll answer all your questions tomorrow, but it’s going to be a big day and you need to sleep. Goodnight, Harry.”

The door falling shut behind Black put an end to Harry’s argument, as one couldn’t very well argue with a door. He flipped off the lamp and curled up into his temporary bed, sure he’d be even more awake now with this new knowledge playing in his head than he was before Black came to talk to him. But sleep found him easily, and he fell unconscious to a comfortable heat pressed into the middle of his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say a quick thanks to everyone who gave me feedback on the last chapter. As always, comments are incredibly encouraging and appreciated! :)


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay of getting up this new chapter, but hopefully the glimpse of Tom we get will make up for it a little :)

Harry woke with a jolt and felt close to panic. It seemed that the many images of death he’d been envisioning the night before had been carried with him into his dreams.

A burning heat in his palm shook him from his dread, and he looked down at his hand where it was clutching at a locket. He relaxed his grip as he remembered last night. Sirius Black coming to see him, telling him about his own experiences in the games, revealing who his mum was, giving him her locket.

The information was overwhelming, even more so than it had been last night. His mum had been a Victor. His  _mum_  had been a  _Victor_.

He knew who his mother was.

He knew that what he was going through now, she had gone through once before him. And she had survived it. The thought was almost comforting. Almost.

A loud knocking at his door startled Harry so badly he almost dropped the locket. “Up you get, Harry, darling!” Skeeter’s saccharine voice filtered through the closed door. “We’re almost at the Ministry! You’ll want to eat breakfast before then.”

The sound of heels on carpet faded away into nothing until Harry assumed Skeeter had left. He looked at the locket once more and then determinedly got out of bed and tossed on the clothes left for him on a chair he hadn’t noticed yesterday. The shirt and pants were black, the fabric of nicer quality than anything he’d ever seen before, let alone owned.

It hit him as he looked out the window and saw massive buildings whizz by that he would be in the Capitol today. That this was really happening, and that there was truly no going back. He didn’t know if it was fear he was feeling, or something else entirely.

He left his carriage with his mother’s locket wrapped firmly around his left wrist where his pulse palpitated strongly with the beat of his heart.

Ginny was already at the same table they’d eaten at yesterday when he appeared, with Skeeter sitting in the same spot across from her. Ginny's expression was predictably sour even as she remained silent, and as he got closer he could hear Skeeter prattling about the Ministry.

“... it really is quite magnificent. Oh, you’ll absolutely love it, darling, it isn’t anything like what you’ve seen in that wretched little District you come from.”

“That ‘ _wretched little District_ ’ is my  _home_ ,” Ginny snarled, her fists clenched on top of the table next to her empty plate. “And you people have taken me from it without a care for how I or my family might feel. I don’t care howfancy your Ministry is, District 9 is ten times the place it could ever be, if only for the people!”

“Everything all right?” Harry interrupted, looking between Ginny’s red face and Skeeter’s narrowed eyes warily. He took the seat beside Ginny and for the first time noticed that Black wasn’t in the room. Harry was unsurprised, if a bit disappointed. He still had so many questions from their conversation last night.

“Fine,” Ginny grit out through clenched teeth. She began methodically dumping food onto her plate without seeming to notice—or care—what food it was. Harry followed suit, his movements much more restrained in the tense atmosphere.

They ate in rigid silence for the remainder of the meal. His stomach clenched nauseatingly when he felt the train coming to a stop, and he reckoned he could hear the shouting and excitement from those awaiting his and Ginny’s arrival, although that might have just been his imagination.

“Ah, good, we’re here.” Skeeter stood up gracefully, as if it was a practiced movement. Her outfit consisted of a lime green peacoat and pencil skirt of the same shade. The colour wasn’t doing anything to help soothe Harry’s stomach. “Look alive, my darlings, or they may just  _eat_  youalive.”

Her grin was vicious, and Harry felt a shiver ripple through him.

They emerged onto the platform to an explosion of noise. Harry had to blink rapidly to see properly after the flashes of cameras surprised him whilst trying to follow Skeeter and Ginny out of the carriage. People were shouting and trying desperately to get his attention from behind barricades as he advanced, and he forced a bright smile onto his face. He waved, trying to appear as open and friendly as he could, even as he remembered what he had always thought of these people. People so fake he sometimes wondered if they were actually  _real._  But of course they were—they were standing right in front of him now, after all.

He cringed when a little girl, hardly older than 5 or 6 years old, reached for his hand over the barricade, practically dangling with only a precarious grip on the barrier for balance. A swell of pity rose up in him, noticing her bright pink dress—hardly appropriate for the weather, cloudy as it was with a brisk wind coming from the west—and the people standing behind her, who he thought might be her parents, and how they were only standing there encouraging her.

Harry’s smile faltered but he didn’t let it slip. He followed Ginny, imitating her confident march and how she held her head high, her smile as false as the people who cheered for her.

He thought, for the first time, that maybe he could do this. Maybe he could be what the Ministry wanted him to be. And maybe when he was tired of that, he could show them why he would  _never_  be who they wanted him to be.

—

The Ministry was immense. Even more so than he remembered from seeing it on the TV. It resembled everything else he’d seen of the Capitol so far, except it was somehow…  _more._  More ornate, more impressive than anything else he’d seen.

That was probably the point, he thought.

He and Ginny were led up to the ninth floor of the building, where they’d be staying until the Games began. They passed Aurors along the way, who were roaming the hallways and standing guard at the elevators. He knew them by their red uniforms—District 9 had some as well, whose express purpose was to “keep the peace,” although they seemed more inclined to eat the baked goods no one else in the district could afford and generally sit around all day on their arses unless there was a disturbance.

_These_  Aurors seemed to take their jobs a bit more seriously.

They were told they would have the floor entirely to themselves. It was certainly as grand as Harry would’ve expected from the Ministry. Skeeter had obviously been there before as she led them to a room with high ceilings and a polished, entirely black floor. There was an inexplicable indoor waterfall—where the water was coming from, Harry couldn’t tell—and a giant window that made up the whole opposite wall.

Harry’s own room was just as stunning and even larger than the room he’d had on the train. The bed was probably his favorite part about it. He didn’t know what sleeping on a cloud felt like, but he imagined this bed was as close to a cloud as he would get.

Too bad he would hardly be able to enjoy it.

By dinnertime, Harry still hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Black, and he couldn’t help but feel like the day had been wasted away. His nerves were causing sweat to slick his hands and he couldn’t stop fidgeting.

The dining table was much too large for just the three of them—Harry, Ginny, and Skeeter—but Harry didn’t notice. He was grudgingly anticipating watching the other Reapings, which Skeeter had said would come on TV after dinner.

Twenty-two other tributes. Kids, Harry’s mind supplied unrepentantly. Twenty-four of them in total. All of whom would die in the next few weeks, depending on how long the games lasted. All but one.

Harry realised he didn’t want to know them. Didn’t want to see their faces or know their names. Didn’t want to imagine one of them bringing an end to his life. Certainly didn’t want to imagine one of them dying by his own hand.

But he knew he would watch. He would face this like he did all things—head-on, and without looking back.

That didn’t mean he didn’t flinch slightly when Skeeter finally did flick on the TV.

“Hello everybody!” came the voice of Gilderoy Lockhart, before his face popped up on screen, his smile blinding and his golden hair fashionably swept to the side of his forehead. He thought he heard a whimper come from Skeeter’s side of the table. “I am your host, Gilderoy Lockhart, and it is my pleasure to welcome you all to the 74th annual Hunger Games!” This announcement was met with thunderous applause. Lockhart expounded on the Games as he did every year, and Harry mostly zoned out as he did every year, not interested in hearing the games explained again. He already knew very well what they entailed.

“These contestants are already shaping up to be some of the most fascinating tributes since the 71st Games.” Video of these games took the place of Lockhart’s face on screen, showing footage of Hermione Granger of District 5, and how she’d come out victorious. Harry remembered those games and how Hermione had won by outwitting every other tribute. He didn’t listen to Lockhart’s rehashing of events, merely stared at the familiar up close footage of Hermione, her brown eyes hard and her lips a grim line. The video panned out to show how her arm stretched out, her hand grasping a wand with a grip no one would expect from such a slight girl.

The camera went back to Lockhart as he began to speak.

“From District 1, we have 17 year olds Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy.” On screen a boy and a girl stood side-by-side. The boy’s blond—almost white—hair and pale complexion stood out in stark contrast to the girl’s dark hair and shadowed eyes. While the boy—Malfoy’s—eyes gleamed with acute intelligence, the girl Lestrange had something a little more unstable, a little more sinistershining from hers. “Lucius’ father, Abraxas Malfoy, won the Games 23 years ago and is subsequently this year’s District 1 mentor…”

Gooseflesh raised on Harry’s arm as he stared at them, already feeling whatever confidence he might have had draining away like Vernon’s money whilst he ill-advisedly visited those dank—and illegal—pubs. He startled at Ginny’s huff, turning towards her although she didn’t say anything.

Next was Eileen Prince and Antonin Dolohov from District 2. Dolohov was clearly as dangerous as the tributes from District 1, but Prince appeared less ruthless than stoic. Not that Harry was about to underestimate a career tribute. In fact, that was probably the perfect reason  _not_ to.

_You can’t trust anyone_ , Black had said. Harry decided he would be wary of  _all_ the tributes.

“And now from District 3, we have Myrtle Warren and Tom Riddle—who is, perhaps, the most interesting tribute we have seen so far.” The camera panned to another boy and girl, very different from any of the tributes seen so far from the first two districts. But that was to be expected, seeing as these two were not career tributes. The girl was small and skinny, and could not have been older than 14, while the boy…

Harry sucked in a sharp breath. The boy was… well,  _stunning_  was the only word that came to mind. He was at least two heads taller than the girl, and he stood stiffly with his hands behind his back. He stared straight ahead, his eyes so dark Harry would have mistaken them for black if not for the brief glimmer of grey as the sunlight hit them just right. He was as pale as Lucius Malfoy, his hair even darker than that of Bellatrix Lestrange, and he was more attractive than the both of them combined.

Harry’s heart raced at that thought. What was he doing, thinking other tributes  _attractive_? Thoughts like that would never help him win.

“Not much is known about Tom Riddle except that he grew up in an orphanage and is the first person from District 3 to have volunteered for the Games in over fifty years.”

Harry straightened at that. Volunteered?He had  _volunteered_? But… nobody from non-career districts  _volunteered_  for the games. It was like an unwritten rule. Well, maybe not rule so much as perfectly valid survival-tactic.

Footage of Riddle volunteering started playing on the screen. Harry grew cold at how detached he sounded whilst saying the words, at how impassive he appeared walking up to the podium. And when the camera got a close up of him, Harry felt himself go rigid. He tried very hard not to think that, in that moment, he was looking into the icy, hard eyes of the Victor of the 74th annual Hunger Games.

He was snapped out of it by Skeeter muttering, “Why, he’s a handsome one isn’t he?”

Harry ignored her. Handsome, yes. But more importantly—Tom Riddle was unquestionably deadly.

Nobody just volunteered for the games. Not unless they had a reason. Not unless they thought they could  _win_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll only be a couple more chapters now until we meet Tom properly, don't worry. Feel free to let me know what you think of the story so far!

**Author's Note:**

> Tbh, this first chapter is sort of like a trial run. If I get good feedback on it, I'll probably continue (and the chapters will be a bit longer, too), but if it doesn't seem like anyone's interested then I'm not sure what I'll do with it. Comments are always appreciated!


End file.
